LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 






UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




J. WARREN FABESS. 



THE LAST CIGAR" 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



By J. WARREN FABENS, 

FORMERLY U. S. CONSUL AT CAYENNE, S. A., AND AUTHOR 

OP "THE CAMEL HUNT," "LIFE ON THE 

ISTHMUS," ETC., ETC. 







/ 



New York: 
M. L. HOLBROOK & CO. 






COPYRIGHT BY 

M. L. HOLBROOK, 

1887. 



DEDICATED TO OUR DAUGHTERS. 



As I have long wished that these few poems 
which I have selected from some which my 
late husband wrote in his youth, should be ar- 
ranged in a permanent form, in which our 
three surviving daughters (to whom I dedicate 
this little volume) might keep them, I have 
now decided to have them published, hoping 
that our friends also will enjoy and appreciate 
them. 

L. F. Fabens. 



CONTENTS. 



Preface 3 

Sketch of Author 8 

The Last Cigar 9 

Lines on Leaving Home 11 

Evening 46 

Helen Burns 19 

Byron's Latter Bays 25 

The First Star 27 

The Burial at Sea 29 

Lines on a Bank Bill 39 

A Vision 43 

I Miss Thee 47 

Thoughts in Dejection 49 

Mount Lander ^3 

In Spain 71 



PREFACE. 



The friends who have gathered for publication the 
poems contained in this volume have invited me to 
add to it, by way of preface, a few words concern- 
ing the author of the verses herein presented. 

At the time of Col. Fabens' death I thought and 
suggested to others, that some account of his varied 
and adventurous life should be prepared, if not other- 
wise, at least as a contribution to the history of his 
native town. This task has not as yet been under- 
taken, and the limits here assigned me allow only the 
briefest mention of some of the leading facts which 
mark his record. 

Joseph Warren Fabens was born in Salem, Mass., 
where a number of his relatives still reside. Contem- 
plating probably a professional career he entered Har- 
vard College at the age of sixteen years. His health, 
however, was not sufficient for the endurance of the 
college curriculum. His studies were renounced in 
the hope that a sea voyage and European travel 
would prove beneficial to him. On his return home 
he made a second effort to attain a professional edu- 
cation, entering the Theological Seminary at Andover, 
which, however, he was soon obliged to leave. It now 
became evident that he was physically unable to en- 
dure the severe strain of study, and an opening in 
another direction was sought by him. 

(Hi.) 



iv. PREFACE. 

At the age of twenty-two, being already married, 
he was appointed U. S. Consul at Cayenne, S. A. At 
this post he remained several years. 

In 1859 he visited the island of Santo Domingo, and 
soon began to take a warm interest in the welfare of 
its inhabitants. He became much impressed with the 
natural resources of the island, and was a strenuous 
advocate of its annexation to the United States. In 
the Spring of 1872 I had the pleasure of visiting Santo 
Domingo in company with Dr. Howe. Col. Fabens 
was our fellow-passenger. Several young ladies of our 
family went with us, and all of them must, I think, 
share with me the grateful recollection of his genial 
kindnesses. He was an admirable reader of Dickens, 
and I well remember what hours of seasickness were 
alleviated by his delightful rendering of scenes drawn 
by the great English humorist. Among the islanders 
he had many friends, and was much respected. 

These were the palmy days of the Sainana Bay 
Company. The soldierly sense of General Grant, then 
Chief Magistrate of the United States, had perceived 
the importance, in a military point of view, of some 
Government possessions in the "West Indies. The brave 
struggle by which the Dominicans had won their in- 
dependence from the Government of Hayti had en 
deared them to such lovers of freedom as Dr. Howe, 
Ben Wade, of Ohio, and Andrew D. White, President 
of Cornell University. These gentlemen, appointed 
and sent by the U. S. Government to report upon 



PREFACE. y. 

the advisibility of annexing the Dominican Republic 
to our own, made a very strong showing in favor of the 
plan. It is needless to explain here the counter-move- 
ment which ended in its overthrow ; I have mentioned 
the matter only to say that the prospect of aiding his 
Dominican friends inspired Col. Fabens with hopes 
whose fulfilment he was never to see with mortal 
eyes. 

The Colonel's health, never robust, was at this time 
very delicate, and yet his eye was full of light, and his 
step firm and elastic, as he paced the streets of the 
ancient city of Columbus, and dreamed of the mo- 
ment when the Stars and Stripes would mark the ban- 
ner floating above its citade]. In this hope, which 
was fully shared by my dear husband, Col. Fabens 
returned to New York, soon to revisit his beloved 
tropics. In 1874 Dr. Howe and I were once more fel- 
low-passengers with him to the wonderful island which 
we had all learned to love. Great changes had now 
taken place. The scheme of annexation had been 
abandoned, and the expected leasing of the Bay of 
Samana to the United States as a naval station had 
also fallen through. All was now sadness and dis- 
appointment on the part of the annexationists and 
their friends. Col. Fabens always maintained a genial 
and cheerful aspect, but his heart must have been 
deeply grieved at this turn of affairs. He now bade 
farewell to Santo Domingo for the last time. 

A residence of many years in warm climates had 



vi. PREFACE. 

unfitted him for enduring the blasts of our northern 
winter, and in March, 1875, he fell a victim to rapid 
consumption. I can bear witness to the esteem in 
which Dr. Howe held our friend, and to the sorrow with 
which he received the news of his death. Already in- 
firm in health, Dr. Howe was unable to attend the 
funeral services, which took place in Salem. By his 
special desire I went thither as his representative, 
bearing messages of sympathy and regard for the 
bereaved family, permitted also to lay above the ashes 
of our friend a funeral wreath whose beauty and 
fragrance betokened undying hope and loving remem- 
brance. 

I stand beside thy open grave 

Oh comrade gallant, brave and true, 
And no one asks a song of me, 

For days are dark, and friends are few. 

Here in thy little aucient town, 

Companions of thy boyhood dwell ; 
Brother and sister, schoolmates old, 

Thy melancholy cortege swell. 

Thy silky locks, as white as snow, 

Did not from age derive their hue, 
But in thy strain and stress of life 

Apace their silvery pallor grew. 

Receive this fragrant wreath which brings 

True tribute to a loyal breast, 
The champion of a hundred fields 

Released at last, and crowned -with rest. 

JULIA WARD HOWE. 



SKETCH. 



Extract from a Sketch of Col. J. W. Fabens, 
from The Newburyport Herald. 



Col. Fabens is one of those quiet, unassuming men 
of whom New England has produced so many, capa- 
ble of deep thinking and brave and lofty acting. 

He might be taken, if his moustache was off, for 
a New England clergyman, which he came very near 
being, having at one time been connected with the 
Andover Theological School. He was advised to that 
course of life as being suited to his modest, reserved 
and literary habits, for he is a scholar and a poet, as 
well as a gentleman. But underneath the almost fem- 
inine exterior of his younger days dwelt in J. Warren 
Fabens one of the most dauntless spirits that ever 
chose humanity for a habitation. Fear is a sensation 
with which he has no acquaintance, and personal dan- 
ger fails to move him more than though he was formed 
of cast iron. Once on board a steamer he was silently 
smoking a cigar (he is the author of some of the most 
beautiful verses in the English language, entitled, " My 
Last Cigar, off the Canaries,") when the boat came in 
violent contact with another steamer and was cut to 
the water's edge. His companions made a rush for 
the stern, and when they looked around for him, there 
he was, still on the same spot, seeming to take a 
philosophical view of the crash, as though there was 
not the least danger in the world. This was charac- 
teristic of him. 



THE LAST CIGAR. 

'SpWAS off the blue Canaries, 

^£> A glorious summer day, 
I sat upon the quarter-deck, 

And whiffed my cares away ; 
And as the volumed smoke arose 

Like incense in the air, 
I heaved a sigh to think, in sooth, 

It was my last cigar. 

I leaned against the quarter rail 

And gazed down in the sea ; 
E'en there the airy wreaths of smoke 

Were curling gracefully. 
Oh, what had I at such a time 

To do with wasting care ? 
Alas, the trembling tear proclaimed 

It was my ] ast cigar ! 
(9) 



10 THE LAST CIGAR. 

I watched the ashes as it came 

Fast nearing to the end ; 
I watched it as a friend will watch 

Beside his dying friend ; — 
I could not speak, — I could not stir, 

But like a statue there, 
I whiffed the massy volumes out 

Of that divine cigar ! 

At length the pile of ashes fell, 

Like child from mother torn, 
And the smoke that I drew in and out 

Grew warm and yet more warm. 
I took one last, one lingering whiff — 

A long whiff of despair — 
And threw it from me — spare the tale, 

It was my last cigar ! 

I've seen the land of all I loved 

Fade in the distance dim, — 
And sighed above the blighted heart 

Where once proud hope had been ; 
But never have I felt a thrill 

Which could with that compare. 
When off the blue Canaries 

I smoked my last cigar ! 



LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 

"Farewell — a word that must be — and has been 
A sound that makes us linger. Yet farewell." 

Childe Harold. 

t STAND upon the deck — the soft south west 
Breathes o'er the sea and curls the water's 
breast 
In feathery crests, and fills the canvas 
That shall bear us on to sunnier climes. 
And bends the tall ship nearer to the wave, 
And sends the white spray shivering from the 

prow. 
And to most hearts brings gladness, but to 

mine 
A sense of desolation, for it comes 
O'er the green places where I loved to linger, 
Fraught with the breath of flowers I am leav- 
ing; 
(11) 



12 LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 

And it brings back to my mind the dreams of 

youth, 
When I had thought to interweave my name 
With those old hills, and take a place among 
The proudest of my country's sons — the halls 
Of learning — and the lone sea shore, the church 
Where first my spirit drank the theory 
Of that which long ago most bitterly, 
Had proved itself to the young mind in sad 
Experience, that all is vanity — 
The peopled city and the deep solitude 
Where the then unsullied soul sought quiet — 
Familiar faces, well-remembered sounds, 
True words and truer hearts, the voice, the 

breath 
And atmosphere of home — all, all I loved 
And could not bear to leave, are borne across 
The waters on the wings of this mild wind — 
And dost thou wonder that my heart is sad, 
And that the heavy sigh will heave my chest, 
And the big tear stand glistening in my eye 
When I must say to one and all — farewell ! 

Yet it must be — farewell ; the voice has spoken 
That doth send me forth, and I must go ; for 
I have learned the folly and the wretchedness 



LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 13 

Of him that battles with his destiny. 
Farewell — the heart that says it will be grayer 
Ere it beats again within the view of 
The old places it is leaving, — if so be 
It ever should return — and if it should, 
Where shall it turn to find the things it weeps 
So bitterly to part with ? The hills will 
Be the same ; the old forest may have shed 
Its coat again and put on fresher garments, 
But to me will look the same ; the stream will 
Dance as gaily in the sun, and the shore 
Receive the heaving surge as is its wont ; — 
Perchance the church, the garden and the grove 
Of burial may escape the changing hand 
Of time and man, and wear their old true aspect. 
But where will be the bright eye and the laugh- 
ing lip ? 
Will not the raven locks wear here and there 
A tinge of whiteness ? And the rose — will it 
Not some have faded from the cheek ? And the 
Lily — will not the autumn breath have stolen 
From its purity ? And the heart — will not the 
Weight of years and cares, and the perplexities 
Of earth have pressed too heavily upon it, 
Eating away its freshness ? Heaven best 
Can tell. 



14 LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 

The wise have written of a life 

That is dependent not on outward show, 

And hath no unity with circumstance, — 

But lives and feeds alone upon itself, 

And finds sufficient sustenance in its 

Own purity and stern uprightness ; and 

They say that those who have this life 

Know naught of difference in time or place, 

But that to them all times and places are alike, 

For their own mind is Paradise, and in 

Its pure light all around looks lovely — 

Wheresoe'er it strays, there is its home, and 

There, or nowhere, is its heaven. And this 

They call philosophy. It may be so — 

And they may labor for awhile under 

The sweet delusion — but the heart will one day 

Claim its wasted powers, and ask them what 

Has dried within its fresh and living fount ; 

And they shall find, too late, the glaring light 

That led their souls astray was not a star 

Of Heaven. Oh. it is vain to strive with worldly 

Sophistry to throw away the heart's fond 

Reasoning. There is in its soft beating 

A magic eloquence that will be heard — 

A truth that specious words can never set 



LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 15 

Aside— a love that draws its nourishment 
From God — that makes this world not all a vale 
Of tears ; that seeks alliance here with what 
Is good, or disappointed in its noble quest, 
And proving all things worthless here below, 
Goes back again to slumber in the bosom 
Of that Father whence it first had strayed. 

The heart — how strong a tyrant is it 

Even in its weaker moments ! And mine 

Has wound itself about these places with 

A love it will not willingly let die ! 

The dead are here — the beautiful departed 

Whom it sighed most bitterly to leave, and 

Now there is a beauty and a holiness 

About the green spot where their ashes rest — 

The faithless, who have grown so not of their 

Own will, but been transformed out of the image 

Of their better selves, through a blind chance or 

Stern necessity, and whom the heart still 

Cherishes, recalling in its hour of 

Exile, the bright days of old — the careless 

Coterie with whom it was my fortune 

For awhile to mingle, and with whom 

It was a full high happiness to be, and 

For whom I gladly would have perilled all — 



16 LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 

Whom I loved, and whom I always shall 
Remember in my kindlier hours. — 
Who will fuil soon forget me — and, best of 
All, the noble few who 'mid the thousand 
Chances and strange accidents of this our 
Mortal life have still been true and kept the 
Faith unsullied ; and she, the last, the noblest 
And the truest — one who reigned among them 
Like a living Queen — whom I may think of, 
But not name ; all these are here, and to 
All these with a sad heart and tear-dimmed eye 
I now must say — farewell ! 

Farewell ! And yet 
Not wholly so : there will be some sweet mo- 
ments 
I would fancy in the oest experience 
Of my olden friends, when a look, a word, 
A motion or a sound will bring the absent 
Back to memory. It may be in the 
Still quiet of the summers eve, when the 
Soft stars are out upon their early watch ; 
The moistening wind stealing across the sea 
Will linger for awhile on some fair cheek, 
And set her thoughts to wander ; or perchance 
The midnight storm, howling about the roof, 



LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 17 

Shall bear her musings off upon its pinions — 

Or it may be in the softened hour of 

Prayer, when the good heart overflows with 

love. 
And e'en the lowly and the outcast claim 
A share in its far-reaching kindness, there 
Shall come a thought of me — a blessed thought — 
That shall not be unnoticed in the world 
Above ; whate'er it is or whatsoe'er 
It be that stirs the memory with the thoughts 
Of by-gone days, I shall feel it is a 
Holy thing ; and this it is that robs this 
Parting hour of its sting ; that gives a passing 
Sweetness to the cup of gall, already at 
My lips, and makes me drink it ; that keeps my 
Blood from chilliness, and nerves my fainting 
Heart and buoys my spirit up, and helps me 
With a calm, unflinching brow to speak that 
Hardest, bitterest word— Farewell ! 






HELEN BURNS. 



" Don't leave me, Jane ; I like to have you near me." 

"I'll stay with you, dear Helen; no one shall take 
me away." 

"Are you warm, darling?" 

"Yes." 

"Good night, Jane." 

"Good night, Helen." 

She kissed me and I her, and we both soon slum- 
bered 

A day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple 
on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me 
laid in the little crib, my face against Helen Burns' 
shoulder, and my arms around her neck. I was asleep 
and Helen wa- — dead. 

Jane Eyre. 



fONELY in the darkened chamber 
Burned the taper dim and low ; 
Drearily the hours flitted 
Like a silent river's flow ; 
(19) 



20 HELEN BURNS. 

And while stillness like a mantle 
Hung that little chamber o'er, 

Life with all its rosy tinting 
Seemed to fade forevermore. 

There a little girl was lying 

On her weary couch of pain, 
Gazing on familiar objects 

She would never see again. 
She was like the ones we dream of — 

Type of every kindliest grace ; 
And a beauty like the heavens 

Beamed upon her childish face. 

There she lay and never murmured, 

Never wept- and never sighed, 
While her life-sands slowly trickled, 

Ebbing like the ebbing tide ; 
But a smile of loveliest beauty 

Lighted up her pallid face 
As she listened to the voices 

Calling from the realms of space. 

Calling her to cease from trouble, 
Break from all her cares away, 

Gently loose the silver shackles 
Of her prison-house of clay, 



HELEN BURNS. 21 

And come back to that bright region 
Where her spirit had its birth 

Ere a taint had dimmed its lustre 
From its pilgrimage on earth. 

So she lay ; and as she listened, 

While her life ebbed evermore, 
Saw not when her young companion 

Entered at the open door. 
"Dearest Helen, do not leave me, 

I will leave you ne'er again. 
You have loved me. do not leave me, 

Be a friend to friendless Jane." 

Then the dying girl looked upwards 

With her soft and beaming eyes, 
And she smiled as smile the angels 

Far above us in the skies. 
And she answered she was going 

To her father's house above, 
Where all sickness and all sorrow 

Fade before His perfect love. 

" I shall see Him where He dwelleth, 

The All-good, Almighty One, 
In His presence I shall strengthen 

As the flower in the sun ; 



22 HELEN BURNS. 

I shall gather with the spirits 
That surround His gracious throne, 

And my feeble notes shall mingle 
With the anthems of His own. 

" To this world of weary troubles 

I shall never come again, 
But afar in that blest region 

I will think of thee, dear Jane ; 
I will pray that in those mansions 

There may be a place for thee, 
And will ask of God His guidance, 

Till thou may est come to me." 

With a tender kiss they parted, 

And a last good-night was said, 
And the morning beams fell strangely 

On the living and the dead. 
One from that embrace was sundered 

To resume her checkered ways ; 
One was where her perfect spirit 

Basked amid celestial rays. 

Dry thy tears, poor friendless orphan. 
Voyager on a lone, wide sea, 

For in heaven "mongst the angels 
There is one who thinks of thee ; 



HELEN BURNS. 

And if ever strong temptation 
Gathers round thee like the night, 

For the sake of that fond watcher 
Arm thy spirit for the fight. 

Do not cause a cloud to mantle 

O'er the brightness of her day ; 
Do not make her heart to tremble 

Lest thy footsteps go astray ; 
So that when the voyage is ended, 

And thy Father takes thee home, 
No discordant note shall mingle 

With the anthem of " Well done !" 




BYRON'S LATTER DAYS. 

. . . . "The cold and cloudy clime 
Where I was born but where I would not die." 

Prophecy of Dante- 

§H. let me die as I have lived. 
Unfriended and alone ! 
Nor drop the false, unmeaning tear 

Above my silent tomb. 
In life ye left me to my fate, 
And when my soul was desolate 

Ye heaved no pitying sigh ; 
And 'tis not meet that ye should come 
To mock me in my silent home 

With unfelt sympathy ! 

But turn ye to your joys again, 
Fill high the maddening bowl, 

And strive amid the haunts of men 
To still the accusing soul ; 

(25) 



26 BYR0W8 LATTER DATS. 

Return to where your treasures are, 
And follow fashion's ruthless car, 

Ere life's poor race be sped ; 
Nor profane with fictitious moan, 
Where sleep the weary and the lone, 

In their last lowly bed. 

My life ye made the outlaw's part, 

Forced from my native land ; 
And sought to pierce the untamed heart 

Ye could not understand ! 
Of this I will not now complain, 
My boon is that when I am lain 

At rest among- the dead — 
My lowl} r sepulchre may be 
Unsought, unvisited — and free 

From your polluted tread ! 




THE FIRST STAR. 



SpHE night was dark, the storm ran high, 
^ The sky was overcast, 
And in their midnight revelry 
The night winds whistled past. 

I groped and plodded, till my view 

Caught in the distance far 
A little speck of azure blue, 

And in its midst — a star. 

It was a high and daring thing, 

To brave so dark a night ; 
I fell before it, worshipping 

That form of fairy light ! 

But soon the clouds were swept away, 

And all was clear again ; 
I took once more the cheerful way 

Where I of yore had been. 

(27) 



THE FIRST STAR. 

And now the sky has many a star, 

But I can see but one. 
Lighting* my pathway from afar, 

And urging me right on. 

Thanks to thee, brave and generous one ; 

Thanks to thee, noble star ! 
Where'er thou art shall be my home, 

Though seas divide us far. 




THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

§HE calm continued ; not a breath of air 
Stole o'er the waters, idly sleeping there ; 
The long, low swell that hung upon the sea 
Broke not the dull and tame monotony. 
The petrel, known to all a restless thing, 
Ceased its long flight and closed its weary wing, 
And on the ocean's bosom sunk to rest, 
Calmly as an infant on its mother's breast. 
No cloud appeared to cheer the sailor's view, 
The sky was all one deep, unvaried blue ; 
And there the vessel lay upon the main, 
With all her snowy canvas spread in vain, 
Wooing the winds that evermore came not, 
Forlorn she seemed, and like a thing forgot ! 
And now there was a stirring in the ship, 
And whispers low, that passed from lip to lip ; 
(29) 



30 THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

And many a tear, and many a stifled sigh, 
From the full breast and from the swelling eye 
Gushed forth; 'twas strange, that tide of feel- 
ing warm 
Outpoured by children of the wind and storm ; 
It is no common grief that thus can stir 
The fountains that have slept for many a year, 
And bring the tear drops from the bosoms deep, 
Adown those cheeks that scarce knew how to 

weep. 
No common grief it was, for he was gone, 
Endeared to all. and loved by every one ; 
Gone, and forever, to his endless sleep. 
Soon to be coffined in the lonesome deep : 
And they should see his youthful form no more, 
Nor hear his voice, oft heard with joy before ; 
And they would miss him in the darksome night, 
And they would miss him at the morning light, 
And they would miss him at the social meal, 
And oft apart some kindlier one would steal 
And, gazing sadly o'er his watery bier, 
Pay to the lost — 'twas all he could — a tear. 

And deem it not, cold dweller on the land, 
A wondrous thing that such a hardy band 



THE BURIAL AT SEA. 31 

Should weep like children when a friend has 

gone 
From their embraces to his long, last home, 
For we could tell, so thou wert fit to hear, 
A tale that would sound strangely to thine ear, 
Of men that, bred in many a fearful scene, 
As thou hast known not in thy wildest dream, 
And nursed amid the element's wild strife, 
Afar from all the pleasing joys of life ; 
That, when they love, their love is not like ours, 
Too oft the solace of a few short hours ; 
A passing dream we care not should abide, 
A thing to dally with and cast aside ; 
But strong, unchanging, as the stern alone 
Know how to love, and how love should be 

shown ! 

But see ! Up the steep winding of the cabin 

stair 
They bear him once more to the upper air ; 
The sun shines brightly on the coffin lid, 
And glistens o'er the features of the dead, 
And round his pale, cold forehead seems to play 
As if it loved him, even in decay ! 
All else is still — the motion of the air 



32 THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

Stirs not a cluster of his wavy hair ; 

The snow white canvas lies upon his breast, 

The sailors pillow in his long, last rest ; 

And the close coffin o'er him spreads its veil, 

The narrow bark in which we all must sail ! 

It seems as if the gallant ship did know 

The meaning of this heavy scene of woe, 

So wearily she plunges, while on high 

The flag hangs drooping half mast 'gainst the 

sky; 
And e'en the gleesome gulls are silent now, 
And cease their gambols round the lofty prow. 

Now, one by one, the hardy seamen come, 
To cast one glance — a long-remembered one, 
'Tis o'er — that longing look — it was the last — 
The coffin lid is closed, and all is past ! 
A long, deep silence, and a heavy splash, 
As 'gainst the side the troubled waters dash — 
A gurgling murmur, like a welcome tone 
Wherewith the sea receives him for her own ; 
And the hoarse booming of the minute gun 
Falls on the ear. and is he really gone ? 

Tis past — and o'er the bosom of the deep 
The laggard winds once more begin to sweep ; 



THE BURIAL AT SEA. 38 

A gentle ripple stirs the glassy wave. 
Around the prow the flashing waters lave, 
And gurgling past her drifts the bubbling spray, 
As the tall vessel gathers on her way. 
How gracefully she treads the heaving seas ! 
Her canvas swells before the freshening breeze; 
Her yards are trim, her taper spars on high, 
In gallant circles sweep the azure sky — 
And, bending down before the coming blast, 
She spurns the waters as they hurry past ! 
Around the windlass lounge the silent band ; 
The laugh is absent, and the skilful hand 
Sweeps not to-night the merry strings along ; 
Still is the dance, and hushed the wonted song; 
There come no words from those deep, throb- 
bing breasts, 
The sigh has ceased to swell their manly chests; 
Theirs the deep grief that language cannot 

. prove. 
The grief e'en sympathy may fail to soothe ; 
Alone the tear that glistened in the eye, 
But would not flow, while others lingered by — 
And the quick workings of the time-worn face, 
That vainly strove to wear a look of peace. 
These the still current of their grief express, 
Vain words were mockery in a scene like this ! 



34 THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

But list ! what sound breaks in upon the spell? 
The mournful cadence of the evening bell, 
Is heard far booming o'er the lonesome deep ; — 
And then they parted — some to welcome sleep — 
And some to their long watch, yet e'er they 

went. 
Their glances met. each knew the heart's in- 
tent : — 
Their thoughts found utterance in a stifled tone, 
They paid a tribute to that hapless one ; — 
" He was a noble being ! " Such the plain 
And simple eulogy they passed o'er him. 
And that was all, no other word was spoke — 
The rest was written in that parting look ; 
It was enough ; and calm repose again 
Fell o'er the ship and o'er the bounding main ; 
Naught broke the stillness save the gurgling 

tide, 
And the quick splash against the vessel's side. 

And who was he, the being they had left 
To his lone slumber in the ocean's depth ? 
A strange, an untaught, and a restless one, 
Wild as the waters he had made his home ! 
His soul untamed, and his proud thoughts as 
free 



THE BURIAL AT SEA. 35 

As the deep rollings of his own loved sea ! 
In youth his bounding spirit pined to rove 
From the dull scenes it never more could love. 
He bade his mother, sisters, friends, good bye, 
And no tear dimmed the brightness of his eye ; 
And from his native home he turned away 
Without one sigh or one fond wish to stay. 
Yet blame him not, for life with him was new, 
And a proud moment was that first adieu, 
For he had hoped in future years to come 
From his long wanderings to his youthful 

home — 
Not as he went, but rich in varied lore, 
Of the far countries he had wandered o'er ; 
And wild adventures among stranger men, 
And daring exploits on the boundless main ; 
And fraught with costly presents, as might 

prove 
Through his long absence ever constant love ; 
Aye, blame him not, because his manly heart 
Knew not to weep, and would not act a part 
It could not feel, and sit and sigh away 
The morning freshness of his life's short day. 
His was a memory of his distant home, 
That nerved his soul and bade weak tears be- 
gone ; 



36 THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

And urged him onward in his noble strife, 
To reign a hero in the war of life ; 
Or should he fail in sickness and in pain, 
To prove him worthy of his father's name ! 

But this is past ; — that noble one is gone, 
Deep in Old Ocean's bosom he sleeps on ; 
Around his couch the pale sea flower grows, 
And lends a sweetness to his lone repose ; 
O'er his cold breast the tangleweed is green, 
And mermaids chaunt their ceaseless song un- 
seen. 
There let him rest — a fitting place for one 
Like him to sleep when life's dull task is done ; 
In the blue sea, for whose sake he had left 
His all beside, and was of all bereft, 
'Till woman's love and sister's kindly tone 
Became unmeaning things to that strange one ; 
And in exchange had brought him many an ill ; 
Yet still he sought it, and he loved it still, 
There let him rest ! — his troubled journey o'er — 
Where roves the free and sportive albicore, 
And the swift dolphin holds his shining way, 
And the bright goldfish ever are at play. 
There let him rest ! No harsh, unkindly tone 
Shall ever reach him in his slumbers lone ; 



THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

§HE calm continued ; not a breath of air 
Stole o'er the waters, idly sleeping there ; 
The long, low swell that hung upon the sea 
Broke not the dull and tame monotony. 
The petrel, known to all a restless thing, 
Ceased its long flight and closed its weary wing, 
And on the ocean's bosom sunk to rest, 
Calmly as an infant on its mother's breast. 
No cloud appeared to cheer the sailor's view, 
The sky was all one deep, unvaried blue ; 
And there the vessel lay upon the main, 
With all her snowy canvas spread in vain, 
Wooing the winds that evermore came not, 
Forlorn she seemed, and like a thing forgot ! 
And now there was a stirring in the ship, 
And whispers low, that ppssed from lip to lip ; 
(29) 



30 THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

And many a tear, and many a stifled sigh, 
From the full breast and from the swelling eye 
Gushed forth ; 'twas strange, that tide of feel- 
ing warm 
Outpoured by children of the wind and storm ; 
It is no common grief that thus can stir 
The fountains that have slept for many a year, 
And bring the tear drops from the bosoms deep, 
Adown those cheeks that scarce knew how to 

weep. 
No common grief it was. for he was gone, 
Endeared to all. and loved by every one ; 
Gone, and forever, to his endless sleep, 
Soon to be coffined in the lonesome deep ; 
And they should see his youthful form no more, 
Nor hear his voice, oft heard with joy before ; 
And they would miss him in the darksome night, 
And they would miss him at the morning light, 
And they would miss him at the social meal, 
And oft apart some kindlier one would steal 
And, gazing sadly o'er his watery bier, 
Pay to the lost — 'twas all he could — a tear. 

And deem it not, cold dweller on the land, 
A wondrous thing that such a hardy band 



A VISION. 



"The good die first, 
While they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket." 



^| SAW two beings in a morning dream, 
^ Wandering together o'er the sea of life — 
A true and noble hearted pair I ween 

As ever gladdened this dark world of strife. 

And one was high-souled as the forest oak ; 

His full heart swelling as the swelling sea ! 
The other was all gentleness, and spoke 

Of love, of kindness, and of sympathy. 

And they had loved, and chosen out each other 
From the wide world to love and be beloved, — 

As the true heart may love its only brother, 
Careful of nothing but the other's good. 

(43) 



44 A VISION. 

Their hearts were joined in Heaven, though 
their hands 
Were given in this weary world of ours ; 
Their ties of friendship, all were silken bands 
Inwoven with the young Spring's fairest 
flowers. 

I looked, yet ere my tongue found words to 
bless, 
The maid was caught up from the lover's 
view ; 
And ere he spent his fondest, last caress, 
Soft faded from him in the azure blue. 

They said she died ; and there were many tears, 
And one true heart was breaking, — he had 

thought 
They ne'er should meet again, and his worst 

fears 
Brought nothing more ; now life to him was 

nought ! 

It is not so : — she is not dead, though we 
With our dull eyes perchance may see her 
not; — 



THE BURIAL AT SJSA. 37 

No piercing tale of earthly cares and woes 
Shall break the silence of his last repose. 
His life was short, but in it he had seen 
Enough to rouse him from his early dream, 
To find the honors he had toiled to win 
Brought naught but pain and weariness within ; 
Of faithless friends, a tale oft told before, 
And hopes he long had cherished, now no more ; 
All, all that preys upon the high-strung heart, 
And strives to win it from its lofty part. 
Yet stiil through all, he loved the glorious main 
It ne'er deceived him and was still the same, 
As when in youth his buoyant spirit tried 
Its first long flights upon its billows wide ; 
And it became his one unchanging prayer, 
That he might sleep his final slumber there. 

That prayer was granted, and the ocean wave 
Sighs the last requiem o'er his watery grave. 



-%/^j(f^X9- 



LINES ON A BANK BILL. 



fRESH from the mint — a goodly face- 
Well featured — nor devoid of grace : 
I s'pose it will be vain ; 
But I would say as once was said 
To me, ere yet my youth had fled, 
I like you — come again. 

Yet take no air, my handsome one, 
Nor yet your unfledged soul upon 

Lay " flattering unction." 
For you, like all things else on earth, 
"Will pass — for just what you are worth, 

And fill your proper function. 
(39) 



40 LINES ON A BANK BILL, 

And what is beauty ? A dim light 
That soon goes out in darkest night, 

And leaves no trace behind ; 
But with my inner eye I see 
A something better far in thee — 

A lesson for the mind. 

A strange and restless course is thine 
Upon the restless stream of time ; 

And love, and hate, and avarice, 
The good, the bad. the wise, the fool, 
Alike shall use thee as a tool 

For virtue or for vice. 

For thee the young shall spend their strength, 
And old men shorten more their length 

Of days : (it does seem funny). 
As if instead of bread to eat, 
The curse ran : By thy toiling sweat, 

Oh man. thou shalt earn money. 

The widow who full long has borne 
All sorrow, and but lives to mourn 

O'er him, the early dead, 
Shall hail thee as the means to wear 
A life that brings no joy to her. 

Since every hope has fled. 



LINES ON A BANK BILL. 41 

Thou art a lifeless thing, but still 
Thou bring'st the joys of life to fill 

The poor man's humble dwelling, 
Where Happiness in thousand ways, 
In song, and laugh, and hymns of praise, 

Her keenfelt tale is telling. 

The smilng maid shall press thee close, 
As tripping up the street she goes. 

To purchase sweet confections: 
And bearded men when hot and heady, 
Shall hand thee over as "the ready," 

In bets upon elections. 

A shade has passed across my dream, 
A sad and bitter mournful scene 

Comes up before me now — 
And thou art in the hands of one 
The record of whose fortunes gone, 

Is writ upon his brow. 

There do I read with tear-dimmed eye 
A " sacred to the memory " 

Of early hopes that gave 
A fairer prospect. Ask'st thou where 
Those hopes have vanished ? Seek them there, 

Beside that moss-grown grave. 



42 LINES ON A BANK BILL. 

But dear me, let me hasten back — 
(I'm ever getting off the track). 

Bank bill, thou hast the power 
To purchase that which brings a smile, 
And stays sad memories awhile ; 

But oh, the awakening hour ! 

Bank bill, bank bill, 'tis hard to part ; 
It is not often that my heart 

May win a friend like thee. 
And should'st thou go I know not when, 
If ever, we shall meet again ; 

But if it so should be — 

Perchance in thy worn, altered form, 
Thy fair face battered, soiled and torn, 
And everything of good 

Which now thou wearest, changed and gone 

Besmeared with dirt and filth, and on 
Thy brow — it may be — blood ! — 

I shall not recognize the bill 
Which in my fingers lingers still, 

Untainted yet by toil. 
So I feel loth to send thee forth, 
To mingle with the dross of earth, 

Thy maiden garb to soil. 



A VISION. 



"The good die first, 
While they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket." 



m SAW two beings in a morning dream, 
^P Wandering together o'er the sea of life — 
A true and noble hearted pair I ween 

As ever gladdened this dark world of strife. 

And one was high-souled as the forest oak ; 

His full heart swelling as the swelling sea ! 
The other was all gentleness, and spoke 

Of love, of kindness, and of sympathy. 

And they had loved, and chosen out each other 
From the wide world to love and be beloved, — 

As the true heart may love its only brother, 
Careful of nothing but the other's good. 

(43) 



44 A VISION. 

Their hearts were joined in Heaven, though 
their hands 
Were given in this weary world of ours ; 
Their ties of friendship, all were silken bands 
Inwoven with the young Spring's fairest 
flowers. 

I looked, yet ere my tongue found words to 
bless. 
The maid was caught up from the lover's 
view : 
And ere he spent his fondest, last caress, 
Soft faded from him in the azure blue. 

They said she died ; and there were many tears, 
And one true heart was breaking. — he had 

thought 
They ne'er should meet again, and his worst 

fears 
Brought nothing more ; now life to him was 

nought ! 

It is not so ; — she is not dead, though we 
With our dull eyes perchance may see her 
not ; — 



A VISION. 45 

She is not dead, though far removed she be — 
A flower transplanted to a kindlier spot. 

She is not dead ! Cheer up thou noble one, 
And wipe the tear-drops from thy manly eye, 

And proudly bear, until the summons come 
For thee to join her in eternity. 

She is not dead ! The desolated hearth 
Shall brighten at the thought that both are 
living — 
Though one is still a wanderer on the earth, 
And one is reigning 'mong the stars of 
Heaven. 




EVENING. 

fVENING has come again, and a deep calm 
Steals o'er my spirit, as I feel her near ; 
Fairest of Nature's offspring ! Thy sweet balm 

Has often soothed me in my dark career. 
Beneath thy mild and ever-gentle sway, 

My drooping spirits once again revive, 
And thoughts that fled the searching glance of 
day. 

Come forth, and in thy presence joy to live. 
The sick girl turns upon her weary bed 

To greet the coming of thy cooling breath ; 
And as it gently laps her aching head 

She turns with quiet smile to welcome Death ; 
And joys to think, since her last hour has come, 

That thy soft arms shall bear her spirit home. 




(46) 



I MISS THEE. 



yk MISS thee in my ramoxes lone, beside the 

^P> sunny stream, 

When brightly in the morning light the danc- 
ing waters gleam, 

And all the livelong summer's day, or in the 
shady wood, 

Or straying wayward and apart by forest and 
by flood — 

I miss thee, oh I miss thee. 

And when the social band is met, and hearts 

beat light again, 
I seek thy kind and beaming smile and list thy 

voice in vain ; 

(47) 



48 / MISS THEE. 

And when oright forms are thronging before 

my weary gaze. 
And the glad laugh brings back to mind the 

joys of other days — 

I miss thee, oh I miss thee. 

I miss thee at the evening hearth when all our 

tasks are done, 
And we are gathered once again within our 

happy home ; 
And when to God the Father we turn our hearts 

in prayer, 
And see no more thy childlike form bending in 

worship there — 

I miss thee, oh I miss thee. 

I am not happy as I was when thou wert by 

my side, 
And we together launched our boat upon the 

streamlet's tide ; 
For wheresoe'er my footsteps roam, by land or 

distant sea, 
Or lingering in some fairest spot where once 

thou loved to be — 

I miss thee, oh I miss thee. 



THOUGHTS IN DEJECTION. 



fHAT is our life, and whither am I tending ? 
What means it, all this gilded pomp and 
show? 
If this be the beginning, where the ending ? 

When shall we close this pilgrimage of woe ? 
How strange a thing this life ! We know not 
Whence it comes or whither it is hasting — 
But this we know : that we exist — for what ? 
To pine and die, and be forever wasting. 

Is it indeed for this that we were born, 
And placed in such a "wide and wondrous 
home," 
And served by the fair sisters, Eve and Morn, 
Beneath a bright and starry spangled dome, 
(49) 



50 THOUGHTS IN DEJECTION, 

Amid the birds that sing on every tree, 
And flowers springing in the sunny light, 

And rolling on their course in harmony 
The stars that light the ebon vault of night ? 



I will not so believe ; but I will rise 

And wake me from my dreamy lethargy, 
And summon up my thoughts, and learn to 
prize 

The full extent of my high destiny. 
What am I ? A child of the dust, 'tis true ; 

And I rejoice that this my earthy frame 
Shall die, and mingle with the dust anew, 

And, e'en as once it was, become again. 



I did not seek this heaviness of life. 

To bear these woesome burdens, and to plod 
My way along a world of guilt and strife, 

Forgot of men, forgetful of my God. 
There was an hour when I slept serene, 

Ere I was called to live — a bitter task — 
But could I once have looked along the scene, 

It were a boon for which I would not ask. 



THOUGHTS IN DEJECTION. 51 

And oftentimes, He knows, who framed the 
heart, 

How it has longed and sighed to look on Death, 
How gladly it would lay aside its bitter part, 

And yield again to nothingness its breath ; 
And drop the curtain on the troubled scene, 

And say : It is all over ; and afar 
From men, to lie down on some mossy green, 

And sigh itself to sleep from every care. 



It may not be ; I still am here for good ; 

I will not doubt it. There is that in me 
That cannot wholly die — a love that stood 

When all beside had fallen, like some tree 
That the wild storms of Earth may beat around 

But never can uproot — a love of all 
Things holy, all things lovely, that has found, 

And still can find, e'en here, the beautiful. 



And in my better hours, this has come 
Over my soul like a sweet strain of old, 

Heard when the heart was younger; one by 
one 
Old forms come flitting by ; old tales are told; 



52 THOUGHTS IN DEJECTION. 

Like to the first blue violet it doth seem, 
Up-springing ere the wintry snows be past, 

Telling Earth's wanderer of the summer's green, 
And cheering him to struggle to the last. 

And this is much, and for this I will strive 

To mask the hidden barrenness of my soul, 
And wear awhile the hidden mockery of life, 

While heavily the days and hours roll : 
And this is much ; but oh, the solitude 

Of which this love was born ; the deep despair 
That ended in a hope ; the outcast mood 

That left me buoyant as the summer air ! 




MOUNT LANDER. 
IN bierstadt's rocky mountains. 



gjHERE are broad flakes of lights on the hill's 

Cg) rugged face, 

O'er the breast of the bright pictured landscape 

below. 
Where the hunters of Shoshone rest after the 

chase 
Lies the soft summer afternoon's tremulous 

glow. 

The lake, like a mirror, sleeps burnished and 

still; 
The cotton-wood drops its cool shade on the 

plain. 
There the horses unshackled stray browsing at 

will, 
And the wigwams are deck'd with the spoils of 

the slain. 
.(53) 



54 MOUNT LANDER. 

Far beyond, peak on peak, looms the mountain- 
ous zone 

Whence the wierd river leaps towards the 
green vale below : 

And high in its center one grand royal cone 

Stands out 'gainst the blue with its frontlet of 
snow. 

Oh, fit is the name it so worthily wears, 
Brave Lander's ! — And past is the pang of that 

day, 
When home from the fields of his laurels and 

scars 
To the old storied town by that far distant Bay 

They brought him to sleep by the mother who 

bore him — 
So grandly suggestive, this type of his life, 
With the pine mountain breezes left free to 

blow o'er him 
'Midst the halo of peace that comes after the 

strife. 

The wild life at its feet was the life that he 

loved, 
And the glaciers gleam was the gleam of his 

sword — 



MOUNT LANDER. 55 

With the avalanche's swoop at Rich mountain 

he moved — 
On Philippa at day -break its thunder he poured. 

And that peak that ne'er swerved at the wrath- 

fulest stroke 
That the Demon of Tempest e'er smote with 

his rod 
Stands not firmer erect in its quartz-bedded 

rock 
Than he for his country, the right, and his 

God! 

Oh thus let it stand like a Teacher divine — 
Its brow heaven-washed of earth-stains and 

allures, 
And as passion goes down in the ocean of time 
Be hailed as the symbol of Peace which en- 
dures. 




IN SPAIN. 



"While at Cordova, in Spain, at the hour of sun- 
set I walked along the banks of the Guadalquiver. 
It was a beautiful afternoon, and the scene and sur- 
roundings seemed to shape themselves into a kind of 
poetry. So I went home and wrote (the first for a 
very long time and probably the last) the lines I en- 
close." 



§HE golden sunset was streaming wide 
Over mosque and plain and river, 
When I strolled by the side of that storied tide, 
And drank of the Guadalquiver. 

And I thought of the days when Spain was great, 
Flooding the earth with her glory ; 

When proud and elate she sat in state, 
Pale queen of a deathless story ! 

(57) 



8 IN SPAIN. 

And Colon sailed o'er the waters then 

To another fair world afar, 
And placed a gem in her diadem, 

As bright as the morning star ! 

Oh, then from the tramp of her mailed host 

The infidel fled in dismay — 
From her farthest coast, like a startled ghost 

At the dawn of the Christian day ! 

Those days are gone, but the lingering light 

Still rests on plain and river 
As soft and bright, as if no night 

Could darken the Guadalquiver ! 




